The Journals of Anna Morgan, Part Two
by lianeviolet
Summary: Anna Morgan’s journals after the birth of Samara.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Journals of Anna Morgan (1970 -1978)

Rating: PG-13 for difficult subject matter such as disturbing images, murder and suicide.

Author: lianeviolet

Email: The Ring Anna Morgan's journals after the birth of Samara.

Author's Note: I did some of my own research for this story, but I would like to give the biggest thanks toThe Ringworld site,without their helpful timeline, this story would not have been remotely feasible. I would also like to thank my wonderful friends Ruth and Michele for all their support and confidence in me. ;)

**_March 19, 1970_**

There is frost upon the yellow petals of the daffodils that we have growing behind the barn and I have been wondering if Samara will love those buttered flowers as much as I do when she gets older. I cannot believe a month has passed since we have had this wonderful, little baby and it all just seems like a dream. We returned to our beloved ranch last week and this place seems so much more magnificent than I remembered it, and we have only been away a little over a year. To be honest, I would rather not dwell upon the past year and all of our unpleasant experiences - in fact, Richard and I have decided, after many grave conversations, to tell people on the outside of our family that Samara was adopted instead of having to go through extended explanations every time we are asked about her. I want to focus only on the happy future that we will share with our little girl now that she is here.

The horses were ecstatic to see Richard and I believe he was just as eager to see them as well. Norris, my favorite and very silly horse, acted like he had never seen me before in his life. I have an idea that his feelings may have been hurt by my lengthy absence and that he was just being a little spiteful, but I think he and the rest of the horses will return to their usual behavior once things settle down and we are home for awhile.

I have learned so much in the past few weeks about being a mother and I had feared that it would be a much harder job than it has been so far. It is true that I have less time to myself, but I could not care less about such a trivial thing - I have the baby I have always wanted and I would gladly spend an eternity with her, watching her every movement in awestruck wonder that I actually developed this little human being inside me for nine months. Samara is such a delightful baby - other mothers cannot believe me when I tell them how agreeable she is. The incessant crying of their babies is their largest complaint and they are amazed when I tell them that Samara does not cry at all, not even due to hunger. I have also noticed a peculiar thing about her that I have not revealed to anyone else since I am aware how ridiculous it would sound about a child a little over a month old, but Samara looks at me - I don't mean that she looks in my direction - I mean she _looks_ me right in the eyes. She seems to fixate on me a great deal of the time no matter how often I try to distract her with something else and I think this means that she is going to be very intelligent when she gets older. I have day dreams, in the moments while I am feeding her, about what she will be like as a toddler or a teenager. I just cannot believe that this miracle has really happened to the both of us. Richard is such a proud father and he checks on her all night long, talking to her softly. He still has not mastered the technique of holding her properly, she squirms a bit when he has her in his arms, but he will become used to her eventually.

**_May 30, 1970_**

I've been a mother for over three months - it's just so incredible. Samara's hair is getting a little darker and I think I am beginning to see some of my features in her face. Richard says that is impossible to see that in a child three months old, but I really think I can see it. I was singing to her this morning and she appears to enjoy that; she is not a very active baby, but she still studies my face very closely. I was becoming concerned that she does not seem to eat very often, but she is gaining weight. I can feel she is heavier when I hold her and I do have an appointment today with Dr. Grasnik since she has not seen Samara since we have arrived home. I also need to remember to ask her about a baby's sleeping habits and if it is common for a child to sleep so very little. I nod off occasionally during the day, but every time I look at Samara, she is wide-awake and looking at me. She has such tiny fingers and toes; I love to play with her little hands while she is eating.

I feel such sympathy for Richard since he is becoming a bit frustrated with the baby. Samara has been fussing and getting angry when he attempts to pick her up and hold her. Poor dear, he cannot even enjoy his new role as "father" - she spits up on him or squirms in aggravation. He has been reading some of the baby books that I brought in from town and he has been telling me repeatedly how important it is for the baby to bond with the father as well as the mother, but Samara just does not want any of that right now. I tried to explain to him that it was nothing personal, babies just behave that way sometimes, but I have heard him mumbling under his breath that she does not like him. I told him that was just ridiculous - she has no concept of liking or disliking at her young age. I am going to question Dr. Grasnik about that, too - perhaps she has some ideas for Richard.

**_June 1, 1970_**

I am exhausted after the last two days; the appointment with Dr. Grasnik was a _disaster_. Samara pitched such a fit when the doctor picked her up to get a closer look at her. I was so upset even though Dr. Grasnik said she was very accustomed to babies behaving that way. Samara being in a cold room with strange hands touching her, it is a very normal reaction for her to have gotten fussy. Dr. Grasnik gave me great relief when she declared Samara a very healthy baby, although it was a little unusual that she did not seem to sleep very much, but as long as she appeared to be rested, that was all that mattered. She also said that it was of vast importance that Richard handle Samara as much as possible, even if she gets visibly upset, because eventually she would get used to his voice and his touch, then there should be no more problems bonding between the two. She even mentioned that Richard could try singing to her, but I really hesitate to convey that suggestion to Richard. He sings much like a wounded bullfrog and I think that would only upset Samara more; I know it would certainly upset me.

**_November 4, 1970_**

Good heavens does time fly! I have been unable to write for some time, and here I had planned to keep such a detailed record of Samara's early years like most mothers do. Samara is almost nine months old already - I find that I want to keep her very small just a little bit longer, so I can enjoy her every second. Children do grow so fast and she is learning something new every day; she is even starting to stand up and hold onto things in order to move around.

Sadly, circumstances still have not changed between Richard and Samara - he is so terribly dejected, I feel so much for him. I know how devastated I would be if Samara acted with me the way she does with her father. There is so much _anger_ in that little girl when he is around or attempts to interact with her. She has this way of scrunching up her nose and pursing her lips when she is mad that makes me giggle - she appears so _determined_ when she makes that face. I don't believe Richard realized just how much he wanted to be a father until he had this baby in front of him that just ignores him. I cannot understand why she does that to him, she is very clingy with me and I have tried numerous times to persuade her to be nicer to "Daddy". She just pulls me to her tightly when I say that or she sits down on the floor and pouts. I was not aware that a nine month old child was able to pout like that.

I suppose I am feeling a bit of guilt right now because Richard and I had another argument this morning about Samara. He said we should take her back to Dr. Grasnik due to her behavior since "something must be wrong with her." I was so furious at that statement! There is _nothing_ wrong with our little girl! I told him that he was allowing his disappointment from his lack of connection with Samara to cloud his judgment of her and that was not fair to Samara. This bonding problem is most likely just a phase that she is going through and he should not equate that with something being "wrong with her." He stormed out of the room and has been in the barn ever since. The horses have always been his escape - I can understand that, I have also found comfort there during times of duress. I have been rocking Samara in the rocking chair for the past two hours, viewing the pastures from out of her window, but she still has not fallen asleep. It is getting harder for me to do things around here, even small things, since she has is behaving so "needy" all of a sudden, but I suppose I should relish in being wanted. I am sure the day will come when she is older that she will not be so ready with hugs all the time.

**_December 8, 1970_**

Today has been the most infuriating day, I could just scream! Last week, Richard and I took Samara to the picture studio on the island to take some family pictures. She looked so adorable in a little, velvet red dress with roses and matching hat, white socks complete with tiny black shoes - what a petite doll she was! Well, I have just received the photographs this morning and there are small and unidentifiable smudges in the background. I phoned the studio immediately and demanded they reprint the photos since these were unacceptable. The photographer explained that he had noticed the marks on the photos, but these were not caused by a mistake in the film development - these marks were on the negatives directly and there was nothing that could be done about it. I told him, quite angrily, that he should not buy such cheap film - these are pictures of my precious daughter and we had expected a much better quality than he had provided. He told us he could not refund our money, due to his policies, but that he would give us a large discount on our next photo shoot. How ridiculous - as if I would go back to this incompetent place, and of course, they are the only photo studio on the island, so what to do? Michael is such a darling since he has offered to take some photographs of us and will develop them himself. I was surprised to find out that he is an amateur photographer; it has been one of his pastimes for awhile now.

Speaking of Michael, we had quite a scare yesterday; I shudder to think what might have happened if Richard had not been so quick in his movements. I was carrying Samara past the barn while Michael was trying out a new saddle on Chestnut, when the horse suddenly reared up on his legs, crying out in fear and started running rampantly around the yard, tossing Michael left and right. I covered Samara in protection and moved behind one of the fences while Richard dashed out bravely and grabbed his reins, trying to soothe him from this maniac outburst. What on earth had gotten into that horse? Michael could have been hurt very seriously - the whole event frightened me to death. What if Samara had also gotten injured? I have to be far more careful with her in the future.

**_January 17, 1971_**

The quiet moments of the morning are probably my most favorite part of the day. Richard has forever risen early to take care of the ranch and Samara is always awake when I just get up to go to her crib. She is such a beautiful child, but I am growing sadder every day from this widening canyon that stretches further and further between Richard and me. I can share my little moments of joy about Samara with no one. He has tried for months to win his daughter over, but it has all been to no avail. The last few weeks have created an almost _desperation_ with him; I think Richard feels that he must _redeem_ himself to her somehow. Dr. Grasnik is at a loss to explain Samara's behavior thus far. We have tried all sorts of suggestions - Richard even sang to her in his loving and croaking voice, but she has not opened up to him. My heart grieves for him so much - he has tried to move mountains and conquer seas with this child. I know Samara is not yet one year old and cannot be responsible for her actions, but it is almost as if she _refuses_ him; it is as if she has rebuked him as her father. I cannot imagine from where inside her mind and soul this emotion might come. She is so close to me; she hovers around me constantly and wants nothing to do with anyone else. This is such an unusual thing that is happening with her. I can only hope when she is older and able to think and understand her behavior, perhaps they will grow closer.

Samara has also been developing her vocabulary, although it is still rather small. She can say "mama" and she mumbles different sounds. She has even started to mimic my singing - she cannot say the lyrics yet, but she tries to hum the tune. This brings to mind something odd that occurred this morning most likely from chance, I feel a bit foolish mentioning it, but I was in the kitchen getting my breakfast ready when Samara started tugging at my dress and babbling about something I could not understand. I picked her up after a few moments of her fidgeting and asked her what she wanted. She started getting frustrated because she could not explain in words what it was when all of a sudden, I knew what she wanted. I saw a picture of a cookie in my mind as clear as the blowing wind. I asked Samara if she wanted a cookie and she quieted down immediately. How could that picture have arrived in my mind so sudden and uninvited? One brief moment, I was thinking about getting milk for my cereal and the next, it was that picture. I cannot understand how I knew what was causing her to become so riled. I gave her the cookie to gnaw on a bit and she appeared happier. After that, I lost track of the minutes spent sitting at the dining room table and observing Samara and that damned cookie.

**_April 13, 1971_**

I consumed a lot of the morning hours exploring all the various parts of our property with Samara. She makes a lot of different sounds now as if she is saying volumes of words. We watched dragonflies dart about the grass and I showed her how to blow the white fluff from a dandelion into the air so it could be carried away by the gentle wind. She appears to like butterflies as she could not take her eyes off of them and stretched her little arms to try to touch them while they floated by. I am feeling a little down right now thinking about how time has passed so quickly and Samara is growing up so fast. I know the chances of my being able to conceive again - especially without medical help - is impossible and this will be the only time I will have the ability to enjoy watching my child grow up. Every moment is so precious for us and I am spending the time with Samara alone, without Richard. I love this little girl more than anything in the world.

**_May 19, 1971_**

Things have been getting more and more curious in our household. Michael has just brought some pictures that he had taken of Samara outside near the barn and there were more smudges in the background, just like the batch he had taken three weeks ago. However, to my total amazement, these marks are beginning to take shape. One appears to be Samara's toy blocks and another is of the horse mobile hanging over her crib. I am in total shock and cannot even begin to explain how this could have happened. I showed them to Richard and he was a bit perturbed at first, but then shrugged off his concern by insisting that Michael must have made a mistake in the development; the images must have overlapped somehow. I clarified that the roll of film had no pictures taken inside the house on it and Michael has sworn that he has never taken a photo of Samara's crib or toys. How did the images get onto the negative unless, perhaps, someone had put them there? It is true that our relationship has not been well for a long time now, but Richard shot me the oddest look from those piercing blue eyes, as if I might not be in my right mind or something. I regretted my musing aloud and now I am afraid Richard thinks I am going crazy. He saw the impressions with his own eyes, so I know it is not my active imagination at work. His simple explanation just does not relieve my mind.

**_October 2, 1971_**

Exhaustion has become my newest friend and likes to play amusing games with my eyes throughout the day. Perhaps I am in need of some glasses since I have perceived unidentifiable things just outside my peripheral vision lately, but when I turn to view these objects, they disappear. I remember reading an article awhile back regarding "floaters" that are located within the eye itself as part of the eye breaks down naturally, but can appear to be objects around the room. There is really not much they can do for these eye "floaters" and they are usually harmless. However, with the tiredness, I wonder if I could be coming down with a slight cold - I just never feel completely rested lately. It is growing more difficult to keep up with chores around the house since I just feel like sleeping most of the time, but Samara will not let me sleep for long. She has taken to being carried around the ranch even though she has been able to walk on her own for quite awhile now. She fusses if she is put down for a considerable period of time, however, I must say, she is so adorable to watch toddling around when she decides to do so.

Samara has been trying some more new foods the last week and she really seems to like mashed potatoes and carrots the best of all. I am trying very hard to keep her eating healthy foods since I know she will discover candy soon enough. One thing she does not like at _all_ is soup of any kind - she tosses it onto the floor, much to my amusement and her father's consternation. Richard should not get so upset with her behavior, she is still only a baby, but I know his inability to identify with her is the root of his attitude. I have noticed the last few months that she does not fret and become irritated anymore when he comes around her or speaks to her, she just sits in a cold indifference. Actually, upon observing her behavior throughout the day, she is very unresponsive to all kinds of stimuli, and it is beginning to concern me since I have been reading up on developmental stages in my child rearing books. A child her age should have more of an interest in her toys than she does and the strangest thing of all is that she never smiles. I have never seen her smile or laugh once in almost one and a half years. She is a very intelligent child, it has nothing to do with her developmental aptitude - if I speak to her, she is responsive and communicative, but when it comes to interaction with other people or things, she remains distant. She seems to enjoy my reading and singing to her, and if I attempt to play with her and her toys, she will play with me but she will never play by herself. I have discussed my worries with Richard, but he does not seem to think this is so serious a problem at this early stage. I told him that she will be _two years old_ in a few months and that her emotional and mental progress, or an impediment in her growth at _any_ age, is very important and we should address this issue now, when it might still be able to be managed. I will make an appointment with Dr. Grasnik in a few days, though I am sure she is growing tired of my abundant "anxious new mother" phone calls.

**_March 21, 1972_**

I am nursing a rather deep cut on my left index finger as I take a moment to write this afternoon. I cannot understand why Samara despises so strongly the practice of having her hair brushed - she put up such a chase and struggle today! We go through this once in awhile when I cannot find her "soft" bristle brush with the zebra on the handle; it is the only hairbrush that she will tolerate me using. Well, I searched everywhere around this place and could not find it so I had to use one of my own. Good heavens, you would have thought a _tornado_ came through here by the whirlwind of anger she conjured up; cyclones have _nothing_ on this child sometimes. What caused things to get worse is that she made that "angry face" that she does on occasion, which turned my annoyance into laughter and Samara stormed out of the room. I put the brush down on my bureau and followed her out of my bedroom when I heard a deafening crash behind me. I rushed back into the room to see that the large mirror on my dresser had shattered into hundreds of pieces - I was horrified to death! I have no idea how it could have possibly happened, but my _God_, what if it had fallen on Samara? She would have been cut to ribbons - luck got her out of that bedroom in time to protect her from harm and I am still trembling now just from the memory. Michael helped keep Samara out of the room while I cleaned up the mess, slicing my finger during the process on a particularly sharp piece of glass. Strangely enough, however, I found my hairbrush across the room on the floor - I don't know how it could have traveled such a distance from my bureau. I must have Michael help me check the rest of the mirrors in the house so I can be assured that they are secured properly.

**_April 17, 1972_**

Michael stayed with Samara for awhile this afternoon while I helped Richard in the stable. It seemed to be the first step to repairing our deteriorating relationship since it has been forever since the two of us have had time alone together. Richard has been avoiding steadily any discussions about Samara and I have granted him that unspoken request in order to keep the peace for now. We have been speaking about fluffy, unimportant things. I find I have missed the horses _so_ much in the past several months - I never have the chance to take care of them anymore since Samara takes up so much of my life now. It is a terrible thing to mention, but I cannot help but notice how comfortable Richard appears without Samara around him - his demeanor is very uptight when she is in the room. It is not Richard's fault; I would never want him to be judged as an unloving father because of his behavior. I think he has just given up any hope that Samara will ever treat him like he _is_ her father. I know that he loves her beneath his gruff exterior, he is just unable to deal with her lack of love towards him. Of course Richard loves her because how could one _not_ love his or her own flesh and blood? Even when that child has done something disappointing or wrong, a parent still loves that child - Samara is a part of Richard and it must tear him to shreds emotionally that she regards him in such a neglectful manner. At Samara's last appointment, Dr. Grasnik said she is concerned that Samara might be experiencing a developmental delay, but she did reassure us that Samara is a very intelligent child and explained that perhaps her problem is more likely an _emotional_ one as opposed to a learning disability. I cannot understand that idea, to be completely honest - Samara has a _wonderful_ home, with love and attention and comfort. What could be causing her to have such an emotional disturbance? I want so much to confer with Richard about all this, but he stiffens at the mention of her name. Things have seemed bleak and strange to me lately and it does not help that I have been suffering from a disruptive sleep the last few weeks. Perhaps I need to see Dr. Grasnik for my own health problems.

**_May 12, 1972_**

I arose from bed uncharacteristically early this morning in order to spend some much needed time alone with the horses. Norris still appears somewhat reserved in my presence, but it was hard for him to resist the apple that I brought for him and he eventually let me pet his mane while I unburdened myself upon him. He has the clearest and most compassionate eyes I have ever seen in an animal and I believe that is why he has always been my favorite. I wanted to take him out for a little ride since I really needed to get away for awhile, but it was getting late and I had to take care of Samara. Michael was surprised to find me in the stable when he came in to begin his duties and he noticed that I looked very tired. I told him I wasn't sleeping or feeling very well lately and he mentioned a Chinese friend he has in Seattle who is an herbalist. Michael is going to Seattle in a few days and, the kind young man that he is, offered to speak to his friend about something that might help me feel better. I still need to make that appointment with Dr. Grasnik, but truth be told, I have been procrastinating about a visit with her. I know as I grow older the chance becomes greater that I could develop some life-threatening illness, especially some form of cancer and I am very afraid to see Dr. Grasnik lest I find out I have something terrible. I have always checked my breasts fairly regularly due to my mother's illness, and I haven't found anything suspicious, but I really need to get over this fear of going to the doctor.

I have been experiencing another unusual occurrence which is also causing me great concern. I mentioned once before that I thought I might have "floaters" in my eyes that cause me to see objects that are not there. Well, I was in my bathroom a little while ago gathering clothes from the laundry when I saw a figure standing behind the shower curtain. At first I thought it might be Richard, but I remembered that he had gone into town with Michael, so I stood frozen, watching this person moving around behind the drapery. A man pushed his face against the cloth so I could just make out the outline of his features when I grabbed the plunger from behind the toilet and whipped back the curtain to wallop the hell out him. The shower stall was empty - _completely_ empty. There was no one there, but I am telling you as sure as I know my name, there _had_ been a man standing behind there. I came out of the bathroom and stretched out on my bed trying to make sense of what had just happened when Samara toddled over and climbed up next to me. Well, I guess I am being ridiculous - I shouldn't get so worried about this since I know a lack of sleep can do strange things to a person. I hope Michael is able to get me something to help me feel better.

**_August 3, 1972_**

It was only a total of three hours last night that I obtained any rest; the remainder of the night was spent on horrible nightmares about dismembered baby doves and unending rows of guillotines illuminated by lightning. Samara was very angry that it was Michael who took her downstairs to make breakfast, but I just did not have the strength to get up out of bed. I tried to sleep a bit longer, but it was to no avail - it is hard for me to go back to sleep after I have awoken. The herb packet that Michael had acquired from his herbalist friend a few months ago has not been successful in curing my illness. It was supposed to cleanse out my system but only seems to have caused me to experience very strange dreams. I stopped taking it about a week ago since I could see no improvement in my health. This lack of sleep, however, is starting to take its toll on me since I am still having more unexplained visions during the day, so I made an appointment with Dr. Grasnik yesterday. She noticed the dark circles that surround my eyes and that I had a problem keeping my attention to her. She said that these symptoms are quite common with sleep deprivation and she insisted that I have some tests to rule out any physical causes, such as "sleep apnea", a disorder that can cause breathing to stop periodically during the night and prevent a restful slumber. She asked me if I thought there could be a psychiatric cause for this sleep disturbance, but I was hesitant to mention my marital problems with Richard since it is not just insomnia that is making me feel so terrible. I just have this constant feeling of malaise from which I cannot escape. She took some of my blood and did a regular physical check-up. I am so fearful of these test results - please do not let me have anything serious like cancer. Such dreadful news will send me completely over the edge of sanity.

**_August 15, 1972_**

The warm breeze of the wind is causing the grass to sway in a gentle dance as I bask in the sunrays of this bright afternoon - it bestows great peace upon my soul for the moment. I can breathe a little sigh of relief since Dr. Grasnik called me a little while ago with the outcome of my test: everything appears to be normal. I accepted this as good and bad news since Dr. Grasnik cannot explain why I have this prolonged insomnia and these intermittent hallucinations. She has suggested that perhaps I should go back to Dr. Scott at ECPH where he might be able to make a connection between my psychiatric state and my sleeplessness. I really do not want to go back there, but I am at my wits' end from this constant state of tiredness. I cannot keep up with Samara in this condition - she moves so quickly now that she is getting older and it is so hard to watch her carefully. Michael has been wonderful with all his help, but Samara gives him a very hard time when he is babysitting for me. She fights him and throws such a fit when he tries to interact with her. This behavior has left me in such a quandary; I do not understand why she can be such a terror sometimes. Richard does not even bother to try to take care of her - she acts like he does not exist. We have given this little girl great emotional security, bounds of attention and love, and she still behaves in this terrible manner when she does not get her way. Dr. Grasnik has mentioned that her unpleasant conduct might be one symptom of a mild form of autism, which upsets me very much, but she wants to do some tests on Samara to rule out other causes before she can make an accurate diagnosis. My life has become one big bout of building stress and there is no relief, especially with Richard - it is as if the stables have become his primary home now. He rises early and goes to sleep late so we have no conversations or any real interactions for that matter. I never imagined I would have to go through all of this trauma and strife by myself - I am beginning to believe that I haven't a husband anymore.

**_September 9, 1972_**

The hallucinations are growing worse. I attempted to help Richard in the stables this morning with the thought that perhaps a good day of exercise would help alleviate the insomnia, but it has only caused Richard to insist I return to ECPH for more psychological treatment. I was shoveling out Miranda's stall (she is one of our younger horses) when my left ankle began to itch and the sensation started spreading up my leg to my knee. I scratched at it briefly without looking down and continued to shovel when my right calf started itching as well. I glanced down to see millions of black beetles scuttling around the ground and scurrying up my legs. I began screaming hysterically, brushing and pounding at my legs as Richard arrived at the stall appearing frightened and concerned. I shouted for him to help me kill the beetles and get them off of me when he grabbed me by my arms and shook me for a few moments to stop my frenzy. I closed my eyes and my ears finally heard what he was yelling: "What beetles, Anna? There aren't any beetles! Calm down!" He kept repeating that phrase over and over until I gathered enough courage to look down at my legs. There was nothing there but my denim pant legs and old work boots, so I started sobbing and crumbling until I felt Richard's arms around me for the first time in months. We just sat on the floor of the stall as he rocked me and whispered over and over that everything was going to be fine. My compassionate Richard had returned, much to my relief and happiness, and he helped walk me back to the house. He got us both a warm cup of coffee and sat us down at the dining room table to have the lengthy discussion that we have been avoiding forever. Gazing at him from across the table made me realize that he looks exhausted and much older than I had noticed in a long time. He was quite adamant that I see Dr. Scott once again since Dr. Grasnik can find nothing physiological to explain these visions or the insomnia. He also asked me directly if my lack of sleep was a result of our relationship problems, but I did not respond in order to keep him from any feelings of guilt. Richard took my moment of hesitation as an affirmative answer and began apologizing over and over again to me for his emotional distance and how much he loved me, and he also finally said our daughter's name out loud for the first time in months. He has made Samara the scapegoat for his behavior, blaming her for creating this chasm between us since we never had such severe problems before she was born. I am so devastated and infuriated by those words, especially since it is _so_ untrue - our life has _never_ been perfect and we had _plenty_ of quarrels about many things before Samara was here. My God, she's only a little girl! He says her name with such contempt, like she is some sort of _object_ or _thing_ without feelings - an inanimate obstruction to our living "normally". Richard has become a stranger to me these last few years - it is as if he does not have a parental bone in his body with Samara. Children are _not_ faultless and can be difficult sometimes! That does _not_ mean you sever your love for them and treat them like furniture just because they are not behaving the way you wish! I held my tongue then, since I did not want any arguments about Samara when she is within earshot. I remember many fights my parents had when I was young and I never wanted to put my child through the same thing. She is too little to understand such harsh voices and I do not want to traumatize her. I have lost so much respect for this man - I do not know if this rift between us could ever be repaired.

**_October 11, 1972_**

The foolishness of youth is so often discomfited and regrettable - there are few nice moments when one weeds through the meadows of memory. Looking through pictures of myself _so_ young and lighthearted, I see a woman long forgotten glancing back at me with such vibrant eyes. The pale-skinned specter that I see every morning has stopped appearing as my reflection; it is more like a hanging portrait of a woman older than her years who has lost her faith. I took out the photo albums to show Samara pictures of her grandparents, I know she is still too young to fully understand their significance in her life, but it gave me an opportunity to reminisce for awhile. God, but Richard was such a handsome man in our early life together; those cool and clear eyes that were brimming with self-confidence and intelligence. I have known him since before I was an adolescent, but it wasn't until I developed an interest in boys around age twelve that I cared about his visits to our ranch. Our parents both owned horses on the Island and Richard's father Gerald would come by often to see my father - they were great old friends. My first real memory of Richard was this very cute and awkward young man fidgeting next to his father, trying to avoid eye contact with me. I saw Richard every few months, briefly, but I was interested mostly in the horses and my dolls. It wasn't until I was thirteen and Richard was eighteen that he suddenly piqued my attention. I developed such an infatuation with him - he grew more and more handsome, and he was older than I was which was very attractive. His father died around that time, but Richard still came by our ranch, seeking advice from my father. I think my father always appreciated those visits and how much Richard valued his opinion. I will never forget our first kiss and how gently Richard's lips touched mine after I won that horse competition at age sixteen. I don't know how I managed to keep from just exploding into a million stars- all that brimming excitement and electricity going through me! Oh, God…how I wish I hadn't thought of that - it has just brought tears to my eyes. How do you know a man your entire life and still not understand him? An entire life of memories built from love, patience and shared experiences all destroyed so suddenly - how is that possible? Did I only see the sides of Richard that I wanted to see? Was he always this selfish and emotionally distant during bad times?

I spoke on the phone with Shirley for a little while this afternoon; she has always had a golden ear and golden heart for all my stress and worries. She was relieved to hear that Samara's blood tests for lead poisoning or any other physical disorders came back negative. The doctor explained to me that there is no real test for autism, but there are several things they have to discount before they can take a broader step toward a better diagnosis of what may actually be happening with Samara. Thank goodness I've had Shirley to talk to about this whole autism fear - she is just such a wonderful person. Samara is scheduled for a hearing test in a few days, but I dread that appointment. She is not very good at behaving when she is forced to do something she does not want to do.

**_November 26, 1972_**

Dinner was very uneventful; in fact, the "events" did not start until after we returned home. Michael had stayed with Samara while Richard and I spent some time together at the restaurant. As soon as we walked in the door, we heard screaming and ranting to bring the roof down upon us. Michael, with his arm wrapped in a reddening paper towel, was chasing Samara around the living room trying to calm her down. She started banging her head on the table hollering at the top of her voice that she wanted "Mommy". Michael appeared exasperated and I was quite shocked to see such emotion coming from my daughter after months of strange numbness. Then she started slapping at him as he tried to pick her up and the towel unraveled from his arm revealing a horrible slash down his forearm. I was so distraught that it took a few moments for me to react to the situation. I had to gain control since it was obvious that Richard was not going to do anything about this. I came across the room ready to pick her up, calling for her to calm down, which she did as soon as she heard my voice. It amazes me how quickly she can come out of a tantrum if I am nearby. Michael's arm looked terrible and he admitted, sheepishly, that Samara had gotten a hold of some scissors and had cut him in anger during their volatile conflict. I grabbed her and showed her Michael's wound, telling her emphatically that what she had done was horribly wrong, but Samara just stayed silent and put her little arms around my neck. I didn't want to admonish Michael for leaving scissors within her reach since I could tell he had already been through enough tonight. I carried Samara upstairs to her crib and tucked her in, still too numb from fright to process all that had occurred. I went back downstairs in order to examine Michael's injury, but found that Richard had already done so and had called Dr. Grasnik, awakening her because he believed that Michael needed stitches immediately. Dr. Grasnik told Richard to meet her at her office in ten minutes and she would take care of it, the kind woman that she is. When they had gone, I went into the kitchen where I found the bloody scissors laying on the floor. It was not until that moment that the events of the night finally hit me and I collapsed, trembling violently. I cannot begin to comprehend that my little girl harmed another person in anger. She has always thrown tantrums when she did not get her way, but never to this extent, never to the point where someone was injured, and this was not an accident. Samara picked up that weapon deliberately and lashed out at Michael intending to hurt him. I do not know what to do about this. Samara is almost three years old, still unable to rationalize her behavior, but this cannot go away without being dealt with properly. I stared at those scissors for over an hour just watching the pool of blood beneath them growing larger and larger. It was as if the scissors themselves were bleeding. I feel as if I will never stop shivering and I came to a conclusion after the time that had passed.

I finally understand Richard's distance from his daughter. It was within the expression on his face when he first entered the room. Richard is afraid of Samara.

**_December 14, 1972_**

Richard and I have been arguing all morning back and forth about Samara – so what else is new? I found out from Michael that Richard lied to Dr. Grasnik that night he cut his arm. Part of me understands why Richard did it, since even I was not sure how to broach the subject with Dr. Grasnik, but what do I tell her now? I am worried out of my mind about Samara's violent outburst. This is definitely something of which her doctor should be aware and now Richard has complicated things out of embarrassment.

**_February 8, 1973_**

Samara turned three today and we had a birthday party with a few children of some of my friends. We dressed her in a lovely maroon dress with tiny hearts on it. I purchased it yesterday since many of the local stores have begun preparations for the upcoming Valentine's holiday. I attempted unsuccessfully to finish off her adorable ensemble with two, little red ribbons for her hair. She really does not like her hair up, so we left it straight and shiny. I made a two-tiered vanilla cake with pink frosting and a red number "three" candle. We had a lot of fun making a mess while putting candy hearts all over it – Samara got more of those in her tummy than on the cake, I'm afraid. Michael got some beautiful pictures of the cake, which was unfortunately lopsided.

I planned the party with some trepidation since this was really the first time Samara has spent extended time around other children. We had tried to set up some play times with the Stevens' young son, Anthony, and with a little niece of Michael's, but Samara just did not want to interact with either of them. They played with her toys and she just sat with disinterest, staring out of the window. This is causing me such distress – we have scheduled more tests with Dr. Grasnik, mostly neurological. I have tried to explain to Dr. Grasnik how Samara behaves with me, how she never appears completely happy, but when we are alone together, her communication and developmental skills seem normal. It is only when she is around other people, her demeanor changes drastically. She always appears almost catatonic, well, until today.

We had set up tables in the backyard with red and pink helium balloons – the Charters from down the road brought their two year old Melody, who is a very sweet but unwieldy little girl. The Stevens brought Anthony, who made sure to tell _everyone_ he was three…and a _half_. Michael's niece was unable to come, but a few of my lighthouse committee friends brought their children of all different ages, and we played "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" (Samara excluded because she wanted to sit near her cake) and a few other games. I had our old phonograph record player and we had some children's music going the whole time. I was so grateful that the weather had decided to cooperate and remain cloudless. Everything appeared to be coming along splendidly until Anthony started screaming. It was a high-pitched, panicked type of scream and all of the parents came running. My first thought was slightly disjointed because I was unsure from where the blood was coming since it was all over his face and shirt. It took a brief moment to see that it was flowing from his nose. He had been riding Samara's new rocking horse and must have fallen off. Through all of the commotion, I looked around quickly to find Samara – who was still sitting at the table alone. Anthony cried in hysterics and through his tears I caught the words "sharp poking in my head" as I rushed inside to get ice and a towel. Poor darling – I hoped his nose wasn't broken because my father had done that once, conveying how terrible the pain had been. No young child should have to suffer through that. It wasn't until now that I realized the angered expression I had seen on Samara's face during my quick glance.

**_May 20, 1973_**

A flock of wild canaries slammed themselves into our kitchen window this morning. I was not aware how on edge my nerves had been until the sound of the hard thump and subsequent chirping caused my whole body to jump. I saw one young bird get crushed between another bird and the glass. Samara just stared blankly as I ran out to see how many had been injured. There were several canaries milling about in a daze upon the ground, but the one that had been pinned between window and bird appeared to be limping and holding his left wing lower than the other. He was making these pitiful and quiet peeping sounds.

The poor thing looked so tiny among the others and appeared to be in shock. He did not seem to notice as I picked him up gently and rushed him over to the stable where I knew Richard would be. His first reaction was alarm when he saw my expression, but it changed to curiosity as his eyes moved down to the frail, feathered thing in my extended hands. I stammered and began crying as I tried to explain how he had been hurt and asked if he could help the bird. Richard is not a veterinarian, this is true, but he has much knowledge about a variety of things, including animals. He took the baby canary from me carefully and looked at its wing and leg closely. He said from what he could tell, neither were broken, but he was afraid the bird might have some internal damage after such a violent impact. He handed the canary back to me and told me to find a shoebox, a soft cloth and a heating pad. I put the bird onto the cloth and placed it inside the box, put the heating pad on the lowest level and set the box on top of the pad. The bird was in a quiet part of the kitchen where it could rest and I was surprised to see Samara toddle over to it with an expression of slight interest. I told her that the birdie had been hurt and we were going to keep him safe until he could get better. She just sat next to the box and watched him sleep.

I made Samara a cheese sandwich for lunch then I was going to read her a story. She is going through that phase where she will only eat certain foods: bowtie pasta with butter and parmesan cheese, cooked carrots, applesauce, bologna without bread and cheese sandwiches without the crust. She will eat Cheerios sometimes, but she fusses if you try to make her eat anything else. Richard is disgusted with this display and has announced on many occasions that I am spoiling the child and that _his_ father made him eat whatever everyone else was eating or else he went hungry. I asked him if this was the same father who allowed his son to clean his father's hunting rifle at five years old and Richard mumbled something under his breath and went out in a huff. I love it – this man and his sporadic parenting thinks _he_ knows best. I tell you, it is only a phase and the holy-hell tantrums she throws are not worth the messy victory of having introduced a new food into her body. She takes a children's vitamin every morning and one day she will grow tired of her small list of tolerated meals.

I will never understand how an author could write such a book as _The Giant Jam Sandwich_; I must have had a momentary lapse of judgment to pick this up as well. A town overrun by hornets must construct a gigantic jam sandwich attached to a helicopter to get rid of them. I wonder how many children develop a severe insect phobia because of this book. Samara seemed fascinated and kept pointing wide-eyed at the swarms depicted. I kept telling her, yes, those are hornets, they sting people and can hurt you. I was going to try to explain the whole idea of pollination on a three year old level, but I realized it is just too difficult a concept for her to grasp just yet. We picked up another one of her books that focused on word and picture association - this was a book all about animals. We have gone over it numerous times and I decided that I would let her initiate each word before I said them as I pointed at each picture. She did exceptionally well; she knew giraffes, monkeys, turtles, dogs and cats, but an amusing thing happened when we arrived at farm animals. She knew her cows and pigs, ducks and chickens, but when I pointed to a horse, her first reaction was "daddy", and she wrinkled her nose a bit. I was surprised and giggled aloud. Now there are times I have believed that Richard has behaved like a horse's _ass_, but never an entire _horse_. A quick image of Richard neighing flashed through my mind and I laughed even harder. "No, sweetie," I corrected. "That's a _horse_, you know daddy's not a horse, silly girl. Daddy takes care of the horses in the barn." She put her little finger back at the picture and insisted, "daddy." I laughed some more and moved on through the rest of the book. I wonder what Richard would think of his daughter viewing him as a horse.

**_May 23, 1973_**

Our little canary friend is still alive thankfully and I am very happy to see he is a bit stronger today. Samara likes to watch me feed the tiny fellow from an eye dropper several times a day. This injured bird has brought Richard around more often as well. He has been coming into the kitchen with the excuse that he is just thirsty and getting a drink, but I see him peeking in the box before he leaves. When I get glimpses of the old Richard, it gives me such mixed emotions. I have mentioned before that he has a good heart he is just somewhat removed and moody. I wish I knew what was going on in his head; whenever things bothered him, he was always able to discuss it with me, now, I am outside the little circle he has created for himself. I need to be more understanding - I need to forgive his animosity toward our child. What it must be like to be rejected by your own child! I have been selfish and judgmental of him. The sorrow and loneliness I can see in his eyes is destroying him. There are times he looks at me with such longing when he thinks I am not aware. He misses what we had and I miss him, too. Perhaps, there is still some life in the both of us that we have been too lost to notice.

**_May 27, 1973_**

The canary is dead.

I found his lifeless speck of a body lying at the bottom of the box this morning and it broke my heart. He was so close to being completely well, I cannot imagine what could have killed him. He was regaining his strength and eating more heartily just the past few days, and had even begun to chirp louder. Samara and I were the last to see him before we retreated to bed last night, the poor, tiny soul. Perhaps we had been deluding ourselves all this time and he did not really have a chance after his injury. Sometimes creatures are at their strongest just prior to their death. Richard said that to me when I came to the barn disconsolate after discovering the bird. From his experience, he mentioned that he had seen false recoveries many times in the horses and one never knows what will happen ultimately. After awhile you stop looking for the hopeful signs, since their better health can be deceiving. You just take what comes and work accordingly. He is such a gentle and wise man. It is conversations like this one that remind me why I married him so long ago. He can be my rock at the strangest times when I am least expecting him to be.

Wisps of shadow images are still hiding in my peripheral vision. I see odd shapes or movement from the corner of my eye, faces in foggy mirrors, horrible objects in the dancing light of the moon reflected on our bedroom ceiling at night. I have started having more dreams as well, disjointed and terribly upsetting, although I cannot remember much upon awakening except pieces of the worst parts. They mostly recall a feeling of dread and futility. Perhaps I should see Dr. Scott once again.

**_June 16, 1973_**

Something walked past my open bedroom door yesterday in dark clothes - I felt the wind of its cloak as it went by and as I chased it into the hall, it was gone. My concerns are now growing, not just for my own strange mental happenings, but for Samara's welfare as well. I know this will sound very odd, and I can't justify it, but I have noticed something during my times around the barn and fields - I don't think the animals like Samara very much. It sounds ridiculous, creatures are creatures and behave predominantly by instinct and don't necessarily have the ability to _hate_, but I swear they are different when she is near them. As if they are frozen, holding their breaths collectively, waiting for her to pass them by and spare them some awful fate. The horses are separate in that respect - they raise holy hell when she comes. They buck and screech, Brutus almost kicked down his stall door in a frenzy the other morning. I can feel it within the depth of my core - this is not normal, this is not something easily explained away. Michael told one of the farmhands that he caught her down near the pond brandishing a large rock, crushing small lizards - Michael wouldn't lie, but how can this be true? She's only three years old and she's my baby. I think she is just too young and not aware that her actions have consequences; the permanence of death is something still unknown to her. I'm sure she didn't mean to harm those little things, but I must have a talk with her.

**_July 29, 1973_**

I should have known better than to show Samara where the family photo albums are kept. I should have known something like this could happen. Just a few moments out of my sight and almost a lifetime of pictures have been destroyed beyond repair. I noticed a few photos scattered on the living room floor and followed them as a path to the open albums where there were pictures strewn everywhere. Samara had found one of my ballpoint pens on the kitchen counter and managed to scribble out her father's face from almost all of the photos. Dozens of pictures of Richard, faceless and ruined - I'm _devastated_. How deliberate of this small child to just choose _his_ face. My God, how is this possible? Samara is three years old and it is as if she hates her father enough to scratch his image out purposefully. She left all other family members untouched; there can be no other explanation. I don't know what to do about this. I cannot begin to comprehend this – so many photos of memories _gone_. I was furious and grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. I hadn't ever done that to her before. I just kept shaking her and yelling at her, crying…all the months of stress and aggravation and concern just culminated into this one moment. Samara dropped the pen and became like a statue – no emotion, no tears, no…nothing. How can she be our child? What is wrong with her? She is like an empty vessel sometimes, almost inhuman…no, I can't say that, she's my little girl. She made a mistake. That is all. Children destroy things all the time because they don't understand. We bake cookies together and I read her stories and we play with her dolls. She's just a little girl. She's just a baby. She didn't _mean_ to do it. I pulled her into my arms and hugged her, telling her I was so sorry. I didn't mean it either. I didn't mean to hurt her like that. We'll work this out. Everything will be O.k.

Someone has been whispering my name through the course of the day. At first, it was just a faint wind of sound but it has been growing louder and the letters have taken form to create my name. It comes from the corners of the room, from the closets and windows. I turn to look but there is no one there.


	2. Final Entries

**_April 2, 1974_**

Much time has passed and I haven't felt like writing nor had much time to write. I know that it doesn't feel like almost a year has gone by – it is still just as bad as it was. I have not been well, nor have I been sleeping properly. Things between Samara and Richard are the same, he does not acknowledge this child at all and she ignores him whenever they have the displeasure of being in the same room together. He is annoyed by her presence and I know that anger stems from fear – I am just weary from being in the middle, but I do understand Richard better than I ever have. Every day it becomes more and more apparent that there is something wrong with Samara, Richard just perceived it sooner than I did. I did not want to think there was something wrong…but the fabricated images in all of the photos we take, the animals dislike her, she never seems happy. I don't know where we failed – I tried to do everything right.

It had to have been the time spent in that clinic with Dr. Mundue. I wonder: what did this doctor do to my child? What did he do to _me_? I remember walking through the halls and seeing dozens of desperate-eyed women like me, with hopes as large as their growing bellies. My God, what if there are more of them? I have no way to contact any of these mothers to find out if they are having problems as well. I don't even know if they were able to carry their children to term like me. Perhaps Samara really does have some form of autism that the doctors don't understand or have not encountered. The tests that we put her through were not entirely conclusive, but Dr. Grasnik really did not think that it was autism. She knows that Samara is not a slow learner, she learns things in an appropriate manner for her age group, it just appears to be some sort of social retardation. But, in the middle of the night when I lie awake, I _know_ it is something else, too - something that we cannot explain.

I have not been able to sleep since the terrifying dream I suffered the other night. I was walking through the field near our tree as the light from the sun was starting to fade, when I saw the silhouette of a boy hanging from one of the branches. It was dusk and I could not make out the face of the boy so I moved closer. The body swung sharply to the right and I saw his profile and fell to the ground screaming. I have never felt so much anguish. It was Richard as a child and I knew that his death was my fault – I was responsible. He killed himself because of my selfishness. I just had to have a baby and up heave our perfect lives into a total mess. It was one of the worst nightmares I have ever had because I realized how much Richard meant to me and how much I couldn't lose him. The child within him is dying and it is all my responsibility.

Death is not a new concept here as of late. The horses are having problems breeding – they are able to become pregnant, however, the foals are dying in utero and Richard is highly distraught. So far, we have not lost any of the mares, but I feel that has just been luck. There have been six failed pregnancies in the past three months. I cannot believe that not _one_ has been successful. Richard is so afraid that we will lose our beloved horses, he has stopped the breeding temporarily. We love these horses dearly and are terrified.

**_August 23, 1974_**

Times have been appalling since I last wrote. We have lost three of our female horses – the most recent one died this morning and Richard is beside himself with grief. He has raised most of these horses since they were born; he has seen several generations come and go, but never like this, never in such a violent manner. I fear some kind of unexplained madness has overtaken them. If we had lost them to a natural cause, I think it would not be as traumatic for us. They all appeared to have committed suicide - no, not so much suicide as a horrific kind of self-slaughter. It began with Bennie, one of our youngest mares, who was standing in her stall when she became highly agitated suddenly and began throwing herself against the walls of the pen. Richard rushed to her side immediately, urging her to calm down, but knew better than to try to enter the stall while she was thrashing. He tried to grab her bridle to restrain her, but she was moving too quickly and jerked away. The wood, splintering into pieces from the blows against it, began to gouge into her skin and slice it away in strips. She seemed completely oblivious to the pain she must have been suffering, she just slammed harder and harder until she was exhausted and coated with sweat and blood. She finally collapsed to the ground completely battered and broken, wheezing and then stopped breathing completely. I stood screaming and crying and Richard just sank to the floor in a state of shock. He told me he has never seen anything like that in his entire life of horse breeding and cannot begin to explain what caused her to behave that way. He had once seen a horse injure itself when it was frightened in its stall by a bird that had accidentally found its way inside, but once it realized what was creating the noise and flutter, it calmed down. This was different, he said. That was complete self-destruction, and when he looked into her eyes during the event, she seemed to be in her own panicked world. She did not even acknowledge that Richard was even there trying to help her. There was no way to break through that frightened paralysis of her mind.

The house has been so quiet since this morning. Richard is in a form of displacement – he does not want to be in the house or in the barn and the stables have always been his refuge from everything. He looks so desolate and lost wandering around the grounds, and I know that though he says that he is fine, acting ever as stoic as he always does, the truth is reflected deeply in his eyes. All of these events are destroying him at the core. His distant and miserable daughter who treats him as if he were as important as dirt, his beloved horses and ranch are slowly dissolving into ruin and _me_, the worst of all…his insane wife who has been anything but a wife to him all this time. I am too demented to be of any help to him, a shelter from the storm that has come from all directions. In a rare moment of discussion, Richard has told me how worried he is about me. I don't sleep enough, I am still hearing voices during the day and seeing horrible images too disturbing to even describe. He has also told me things that seem impossible yet make so much sense about Samara. We accepted long ago that she is different, but we never realized just _how_ different she was and it is most disconcerting. Last week, when Richard was cleaning a part of the barn, he found some strange markings behind some things in the corner of the room. When he pulled back the objects, he found the most curious images upon the wall. Not _drawn_ onto the wall, mind you, but _burned_ right into the surface of the wood. From what he could make out, there were some trees, some pictures of Samara's toys and other things too hard to explain. He asked Michael about it and he seemed just as baffled as Richard. Upon closer inspection, he said that they looked similar to the pictures that show up in the background of Samara's photos from time to time. He knows that she has caused this, but has absolutely no idea how she has done it. It alarms him terribly – he is so uncomfortable around this child and after all I have been through and seen firsthand, I can understand it. There is something incredibly wrong with Samara and we are at a loss as to what should be done about it. Richard keeps saying we should just put her away somewhere, but part of me feels that she is our child and doesn't mean to do what she does. The other half is afraid that even if we did lock her up, it would not help matters and everything would just grow worse anyway. Richard and I have decided to home school Samara since next year she will be five and at the proper age for kindergarten. We cannot allow this child to go to school, her antisocial behavior seems to be a permanent given and I am afraid that she might harm other children since her temper flares when she does not get her own way. This just means she will be around the house just as often as always. I don't know what else to do.

**_January 19, 1975_**

Weeks and months are just slipping by quickly. I have spent some time seeing Dr. Scott and he has tried various medications and therapy in the past months to keep my illness under control. It does seem to be helping somewhat. However, misery does not just exist at home anymore - problems seem to be intensifying on the Island as there have been fewer and fewer catches during the fishing season. People are starting to whisper about extreme bad luck or some kind of curse. One can hear their voices like humming within a beehive anytime one goes around town. I know my sick condition has leaked out among the savages – I get more and more stares and people going out of their way to avoid me or any conversation with me. They treat me like I have some sort of mad contagion that they might catch if they come anywhere near me. I have heard the strains of "that poor man" behind a display at the market which I can only conclude must be a reference to Richard and his burden of a family. Of course, I was not alone. I only feel comfortable going into town if someone accompanies me and Michael was there. Though things with the ranch are very tough at the moment, we have hired a new housekeeper to help me around the house and with Samara. Ruth is a very sweet girl, it is her first job in this domestic position, but her personality and gentleness have been extremely beneficial. Samara seems indifferent to her, but Samara seems indifferent to everyone. I am glad she hasn't thrown anymore tantrums with this new girl. At least it gives me a chance to get out once in awhile.

It is not just the townspeople that have been avoiding me. I have not spoken to any of my closest friends for over a year. I know Samara is the reason for their absence. If they have children, they do not want them around her and even if they don't have them, Samara makes everyone extremely uncomfortable. This isolation has become a comfort and a curse – there is a part of me that wishes I had more of a social life, but in this state, I would not be much company for anyone. Richard has tried to do things to keep me occupied and in a happier place. He gave me a beautiful onyx locket with a diamond in the center. It has a picture of him and me when we were younger, in our early years of marriage when we appeared blissful and hopeful. The future was still ahead of us and we were unaware what would become of our life. We had our horses, everyone was healthy - I almost wish I hadn't known the sunshine years. It makes things even more bleak now.

**_July 29, 1975_**

I am at the end of my rope. If anything else goes awry, I don't know what I'm going to do. Samara disappeared on the ranch today. She toddled off while Michael was supposed to be keeping an eye on her, but you cannot just "keep an eye on her", it's not that simple. We looked everywhere – all through the house and the stables, though I knew she wasn't in the stables because it was so quiet and the horses were completely calm. Michael, Richard, Ruth and I searched everywhere, calling her name over and over until I heard a terrible yell from the distance. It was a male voice and I started running. I tripped over a tangle of roots hidden in the grass and fell, but I didn't even feel it. I had to get to the sound. I had to know what had happened.

It was Richard. He was moving in circles, flailing his arms and swatting at the air. At first I could not tell what was going on, but then I heard the angry hum. He had wandered into a giant hornet's nest and was getting stung repeatedly. He was blinded by the commotion until Michael came rushing with a bucket of water that he threw upon Richard, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the safety of the barn. After it was over, he had over twenty-five stings and was in horrible pain. Ruth ran and got cold compresses for him and some ointment for the sores. I came to his side, trying to comfort him the best I could…it was so awful. He was just staring into space in shock. I was crying and saying his name over and over before his eyes finally met mine.

"She did this," he said. "_She_ did it."

I did not know what he meant. How could Samara sic hornets upon him? That made no sense; it was an accident. The ranch is so vast and wide that there could be _dozens_ of those nests everywhere and it is very difficult to keep up with all of them. But when I talked to him again tonight, he explained that she had been hiding behind the tree and had called him to come to her. He had not seen the hornet's nest as it was too high and he suddenly felt stinging everywhere. He is telling me that our child led him to that nest so he would be injured and I do not know what to do anymore. What could make her do these things? Is there really a malicious streak or are we all so much at our wits' end that we don't know what to believe any longer. I am so tired from this. I am so _tired_ from this. Why on earth did I ever create this problem to begin with?

I am still hearing voices during the day, much like radio static coming in and out. I cannot understand what it is being said, but it is a constant distraction. Dr. Scott is aware of this and has prescribed medication that is supposed to help, but it does not seem to be working. In fact, now the hallucinations are getting worse. Almost every time I close my eyes, I see the most horrible things: all sorts of death and destruction, maiming and other violent things. To describe it here would be torturous – I do not want to relive all of it once it passes for a short while.

**_May 7, 1976_**

I have not felt like writing much after my return from ECPH. Dr. Scott wanted to do some tests. He found nothing. Truth be told, I am afraid to write sometimes because my words are no longer my own. My thoughts are no longer my own. Writing has always been an outlet for me, but things have changed now. I am fearful of what I might read when I look back through my journal pages. Sometimes there are drawings I don't remember doing, confusing things. I have torn out many pages because it is disturbing to me. It is almost like a remote writing, like some ghost has taken my hand and drawn an alternate world.

**_May 23, 1976_**

There are lots of dead fish around. I am trying a new medicine from Dr. Scott. I haven't been to the barn in months. I have not been out anywhere except the hospital. The dead fish are causing problems with the economy on the island. There is no fault here. It is not my fault or Richard's fault. He is innocent. Samara brought me flowers when I came home and they were very pretty, such a good girl, so I put them in my bedroom by the window. I love my family so much, I want to be around them, but there is always something distressing. I opened my locket this morning and Richard's face is now a skull. It is now a skull and I cannot make it go back. Something about the channels. Maybe I will join the worms for lunch this afternoon.

**_December 10, 1976_**

There are times I just sit and look at her. I watch her as she plays quietly involved in her own little world and I can see such a resemblance to me at that age - the same shiny dark hair, similar facial features and physical build. She really is such a beautiful, little girl. I look at her and I think about how normal she seems just from appearance. And I pretend everything is fine – that I am a mother with a wonderful daughter who is everything I have ever wanted. Cheerful and bright and warm-natured. I imagine that she smiles and laughs and has a daddy who she loves and he adores her in return. That we live as a happy family and everything is just splendid and good. Then I cry for hours because it is not true and I don't know why it's not true. I don't know what has gone wrong. She is a part of us – she is made up of both of our genes, but it as if there is something added or missing, I'm not sure which is right.

Despite all that has occurred – I still love this child. You cannot carry a child you have wanted and loved so much for nine months, give birth to her and not have an attachment to her. Richard doesn't understand my feelings because he did not carry her inside him. He says I always make excuses for her, but I held her life inside me, I felt her grow all those months - there is a connection that only mothers understand. I know her behavior leaves much to be desired, I know Richard blames her for things that may or may not be her doing, but what I really know is that it is me that has failed somehow. I have failed this little girl and I don't know how I've done it. I don't know how to repair what is broken inside her. I can see it in her eyes sometimes, an almost pleading to fix whatever it is, to make her whole and well and happy. She has never been a happy child, and I accepted that as part of her personality. I should have done more to try to make her happy. I have always tried to give her comfort in the times that she has needed it. I hug her and kiss her on the cheek before she goes to bed every night. It is not enough. Emotional solace is not what she needs. I no longer know what it is that she longs for or needs.

**_April 8, 1977_**

The truth about despair is that it creeps in, almost spider-like. It grows and grows to incredible proportions and once you are trapped within that spider's belly - there is no form of escape. Something has become apparent very slowly. Samara and I were in the living room trying to play a game, but of course I was having much difficulty concentrating. I am on my tenth change of medication by Dr. Scott and it seems to be having no effect upon me. At least it causes less of a fog than the others, but the mist is not completely gone. We were playing checkers and I could not remember if I was the red or the black. I knew the black checkers were on my side, but when they started to move around the board, I kept forgetting which ones were mine. Samara did not seem to care about this much, but I was getting more and more frustrated with the situation. That is when I realized that this condition seems to get worse around her. My mind gets so cloudy, and it is hard to resist the horrible imagery of dark corners where horrors await me. I know she can project images onto film - we have been aware of this for years. Though unexplained and certainly frightening, it has given me a belief in the paranormal. No one outside our immediate family knows of her ability as it would create quite a stir. There is already enough of a stir going around on the island about Samara. Michael told Richard he overheard someone at the town bar call her "that devil child of theirs." I don't know how untrue that is anymore.

During our game, I asked Samara outright if my sickness was of her doing. She looked at me quizzically, one of the few times I've actually seen much of an expression on her face, and she asked me what I meant. I told her I meant the pictures in my head - was she doing it and _why_ was she doing it. She put down her checkers and sat quietly for a moment. I couldn't help it, I started to cry. The breaking point had passed far too long ago. I asked her if it was some kind of punishment. Was I not a good enough mother? What had I done to deserve this treatment? I loved her - how could she do this to me? She stood up and came over to me and hugged me, pleading with me not to be mad. She was sorry, but she didn't know "why".

_"I don't know why, Mommy."_ What does that _mean_? How can she not know? She is old enough to be in control of her own actions! She is a child, but she is getting older. She knows right from wrong. We taught her that much, but...the things she shows you... What _IS_ she?

She wanted to continue playing our game, but I was so worn out. She can just go back to her simple, autonomic behavior, as if our conversation had not just passed, as if nothing of great magnitude had just happened. It's not affecting her at all that she is making me so ill. I don't even know if she cares. I don't know what to think anymore. I got up from the table to go upstairs and rest when she called to me. I turned to her and responded, "Yes, Samara."

She looked at me with complete blankness in her eyes and said, "I think it's because I can."

**_May 16, 1977_**

I have been sedated and I am still feeling the after-effects. I cannot write long because I keep drifting, but something horrible happened this afternoon. We spent the day at the racetrack because Michael was going to be racing Apple Bee, one of our strongest horses. I know now we should have left her home with Ruth, but I thought Samara could use some quality time away from the ranch. She never gets away from the ranch. Apple Bee took a bad turn around the second time and fell. Michael was thrown several feet and landed badly on his head and neck. He didn't move and I just knew this was a really bad injury. He's been thrown before, but never like this. I know it was bad because he didn't get up. Many doctors came out on the field immediately and checked him over. The ambulance took too long to get there, and I remember thinking they had to immobilize him immediately. He landed on his head and neck. Richard rushed over as well and I was left there in the stands alone with Samara. She did not have much of a reaction to all of the panic and disorder around her. She just stared in one place. Poor dear Michael...please don't let it be as bad as I am afraid it is. He fell so badly. I saw it. We should have left her at home. We should have left her home.

**_May 24, 1977_**

Michael is still in the hospital. The doctors have tried to get down much of the swelling around his head and neck, but they say even when the swelling does go down, it will not change his condition by much. He is paralyzed from the neck down. I cannot bear this dreadful news. He is still hooked up to breathing machines because he has been unable to breathe on his own since the event. I have not been to see him. Richard won't let me go because he knows I am not well enough to deal with this much of a tragedy. I know he is right and at least he has been to visit him. Michael goes in and out of consciousness, but they say they don't believe he is in any pain. I am so distraught, I have not been able to leave the house this whole week. I keep replaying the fall over and over in my mind. I am sure I have help with this. Richard got a hold of Michael's parents last week as they were out of town and they have since returned to be with him. I can only imagine what they are thinking, that this is all our fault somehow. I know I am blaming myself.

I went down to the kitchen for a change of scenery since my bedroom walls were becoming tiresome. There were some small, yellow fuzzy things on the floor near the back kitchen door. I was not surprised that they turned out to be dead baby ducks. Their heads had been cut off cleanly with a blade, most likely from scissors of some kind. There were three. Samara had been watching a few of them yesterday and one had bitten her. I should have known that this would be her next course of action. One should never harm Samara; there are consequences. I cleaned them up quickly with disgust and disdain. I know I should tell Richard, but I don't know what he'll do. He has grown tired of this behavior as well.

**_June 5, 1977_**

Last night was spent in the strange universe of dreams. Things so familiar can seem so confusing in this realm. I dreamed of the Island, floated over the vastness of it while watching from above all the structures and nature, somewhat recognizable yet foreign from this unusual perspective. I came upon a stretch of land without any sign of vegetation. It was here that I returned to earth and surveyed this place of great menacing feeling. Thousands of hands came slowly from the ground, digging themselves out - bodies emerged in various stages of decomposition. I felt an overwhelming urge to scream, but the sound would not leave my throat. I had arrived at an Indian burial ground on the Island. I have heard there were several, but I never knew exactly where they were located. Even though most of their eyes had rotted away, I could feel accusing stares from all of them. I awoke in a terrible sweat with the pounding of their collective footsteps still in my ears. They are very angry.

I can feel the buried bodies around the island reverberating under my skin - they have become part of the island: their molecules are in the dirt, in the air - we are breathing them in, this sickness of decay. They have become a part of all of us.

It will be a long time before I sleep again.

**_July 11, 1977_**

I am so desperately unhappy and frightened. The visions have become even more unspeakable and I have not slept well for weeks. This lack of sleep is killing me slowly. Samara has become more and more difficult, especially where any discipline is concerned. One cannot even speak to her in a cross manner without her committing some sort of horrible retribution. So many animals have been harmed on the ranch - I am apalled that she could have perpetrated these dreadful acts. Death and suffering follow that girl like some kind of an atrocious plague.

Richard and I had a long discussion about Samara last night. He feels things have gotten to the point that we can no longer keep her here on the ranch - we cannot take care of her properly anymore. He called her "that thing to which I'd given birth" and that hurt me to my depths of my core. I cannot allow him to send her away - she is our child. No matter what she has done, no matter of what she is capable, she is still our little girl. How can I allow my child to bear any burden because of _my_ sins? This is all my doing - I should have stopped with the last miscarriage. I should have known my body was only trying to do the most merciful thing for me by not allowing me to carry a child full term. I have lost everything dear to me because of my selfishness and obsession to be a mother. And, God help me, I still love her. I still love this abomination that should have never come into existence, because I know this inhuman behavior is not her fault. That clinic did this to her. Whatever pain I suffered in creating that pregnancy, she has suffered so many times more because the means used to conceive her has destroyed whatever might have been a normal child. I did this - by bringing her into this world, I have ruined everything I have ever loved. God forgive me for my sins.

**_July 17, 1977_**

My deepest fear has come true - Samara has been taken away from me. I am inconsolable. It is true that she attacked me with a knife in the living room because I told her she could not keep disrespecting her father and me in such a nasty manner. She moved so quickly across the table, I did not even have a chance to move away. It has taken quite a few stitches to close the wounds, but she didn't mean it. I know she didn't - she was just angry. Richard had her taken to ECPH where they are going to evaluate her. I am so horrified by this turn of events - she is going to become something of a sideshow freak when they find out about her abilities. I know Richard has reached the point where he does not care what happens to her anymore because he is tired of having to deal with this insanity all around him. He wants our lives to go back to the normalcy it held before Samara was here, but even as the blade slashed through my forearm again and again, I didn't want her to be taken. Richard will be so happy if they keep her there forever. He wants her to be institutionalized like a dirty little secret to be hidden away from everyone. He does not ever want her to come back, but I cannot live with the knowledge that my little girl is in that place. I wish she had just stabbed me to death. Death would be so much easier than watching her being put through this horror.

**_September 21, 1977_**

I have returned home after a lengthy stay at ECPH. The past few months are a complete loss. I remember there was a lot of physical pain and awakening from a deep sleep most of the time. I understand they kept me sedated for most of my stay; I also have snippets of memory about Dr. Scott. I know he was there, but it is all jumbled together, like viewing different scenes through a convex lens. There was much screaming.

I have lost so much weight that I have taken to wearing some of my mother's old clothes that had too much sentimental value to give away. She was several sizes smaller than me, and it gives me some comfort to wear her things – as if being coated in her protective skin though she is no longer here.

I am cold almost all the time and Dr. Scott has insisted I take several medications to keep me in a consistent state of neutral. I am so tired that it is cumbersome and time-consuming to write anything down anymore. But writing has always helped me clear my thoughts to some degree.

Everyone has taken great care not to mention her name around me, as if treating her like a subject not to be brought up in my presence will eliminate her existence as my daughter. She is still at ECPH – I can only imagine what torturous things are being done to her all this time. Even Richard does not bring up any discussion about her, but that is to be expected. I am sure he has not even visited her in the dreadful place. He is treating me as if we are the only two in the family, just as our lives were before she came to be.

I have been having terrible dreams.

**_November 11, 1977_**

Richard and I had a huge argument this morning. I told him that we cannot just pretend that Samara does not exist and it is not fair to this child to leave her in that cold, terrible place. Children do not belong in such a clinical, sterile atmosphere for months without their parents. Who knows what they are putting her through there all this time? I told him what he was doing to her was cruel. He asked me if I was talking about the same monstrous "thing" we had running around this ranch for seven years. He said I _must_ be crazy to call that creature a "child." Had I forgotten all the heartache and problems that Samara created around our home? He said things are better since she left here, but it's not true. My visions haven't stopped and I have not slept well for months. Dr. Scott have given me some pills for depression, but they are not helping. I cannot stand it…I cannot stand having my little girl so far away from me. She cannot help what she is – she still needs her mother. She's only seven years old and she is all alone in that hospital, I cannot bear this any longer.

Richard and Dr. Scott have both told me that they are keeping Samara away for my own good, but how can I try to live a normal life knowing that my baby is locked away in an asylum at the mercy of these doctors and nurses? How can I go on knowing that?

**_February 20, 1978_**

I am back home after another episode. Richard found me unconscious on the floor of our bedroom two weeks ago and returned me to ECPH to see Dr. Scott. He diagnosed me with severe depression and said that all these months of extreme stress and lack of sleep had taken their toll on my physical body. I am suffering from nervous exhaustion and must make every effort to rest and sleep as much as possible. The sleeping pills that I have been given have done nothing. I spend time just staring into space and am surprised when someone tells me that several hours have gone past. I keep losing track of what is going on around me. I am told that I babble about all sorts of things when I am in this state. I don't remember anything. I am just an empty shell of the woman I once was. I can feel the sickness in my brain like an thick algae growing in all of the turns and crevices. It is eating me alive.

**_February 25, 1978_**

Samara has finally come back from ECPH at my urging a few days ago. Dr. Scott explained to us that there were very few options left for helping her since he is still unsure what causes her insomnia and her image projection ability. He seemed to be quite fascinated with the latter and has subjected her to many different tests with no explanation for the cause of her problems. Though he could not guarantee results, he wanted to try a form of psychosurgery on Samara as a last resort to perhaps gain a better idea of what is happening physically inside her skull. Richard didn't seem to care about the procedure either way, but I will not have them poking around my little girl's head without knowing exactly what they are searching for. There are so many dangers with this surgery, they could harm her terribly and I am too afraid to let them proceed. I insisted she be removed from ECPH immediately and brought home. This has been such an awful ordeal for her and I cannot allow her to be among strangers prodding her and studying her any longer. She is only a little girl and cannot help how she is. She needs to be home. Richard said he would abide by my decision on one condition, and I cannot imagine that he would really do such a thing.

**_March 15, 1978_**

I have been spending most of my time trying to sleep, though I have been unable for so long I wonder if I will ever sleep again. When I am able to sleep, the dreams have gotten more and more disjointed and horrific. There are times I don't know if I am awake or asleep because I see things everywhere: maggots in the breakfast cereal, patterns of looming monsters on the wall. Richard has Ruth stay by my side during the day for fear I will harm myself. I had an accident one morning while attempting to knit a sweater, I stabbed myself with one of the needles through my left hand so Richard is taking no chances.

Richard has banished Samara to the barn. He does not want her around since he knows my illness is her fault and he is concerned for my welfare. I have not seen her since he dragged her there kicking and screaming. I felt as if a part of myself died because she kept screaming my name over and over - "please, don't let daddy do this, mommy" and I spent the whole afternoon sobbing over the ruin of my life. How could I allow him to do this? I _didn't_ allow him to do this - he did what he thought was necessary and now my little girl is secreted away like some farm animal. Samara is not a monster - she should not be locked up like this. He knows I am furious with him, but there is part of me that is almost relieved that he has done it. It does not seem to be helping with the visions, she is still able to project terrible things no matter how far away on the ranch he tries to keep her, but he does not know what else to do with her.

At night, I find myself in an empty field surrounded by wilting flowers and insects. They crawl all over me and it is as if I am dead. The stench from the decaying flowers is overwhelming, but I cannot leave. The ground becomes a casket and I understand I am trapped there forever.

**_July 12, 1978_**

I am bandaged and confused. It was the droplets of blood that I saw first only a little while after I climbed the ladder in the barn, droplets that became splatters and then grew to large puddles. The wooden board covered with blood was laying by my right side and Samara was dead to my left. My hands were smeared with red and my dress. I had killed her; I had beaten her to death and I had no memory of it. I don't understand. It was so clear, I could smell the iron and feel the wetness soaking into my dress. I could see the matted blood in her hair. Then it was Richard, grabbing and shaking me asking me why I had done it...why had I stabbed myself over and over again. He was holding me and we were on the floor and he was screaming for Ruth to call Dr. Grasnik and Dr. Scott. I still don't understand how I was on the kitchen floor because I had been in the barn and Samara was dead.

**_August 9, 1978_**

When I was just a meager child of five, my mother and I used to have tea parties with my dolls outside on our front porch. I would line up all of my "children" and place in front of them petite plates and miniature cups with blue flowers decorating the edges. My mother would go to spectacular lengths to make everything just perfect. She made little butter and strawberry jam sandwiches that she would cut with painstaking detail into different shapes with cookie cutters. I remember how carefully she would have to hold the bread together in order to create such lovely hearts, squares and circles. She was so determined to keep the bread from falling apart and she would work so delicately - I would watch her face as she furrowed her brow in concentration. It was love that kept her at her task, even if a corner did not come out exactly right, she would just turn it over to hide its imperfection and keep going on until we had stacks of them on a large dish. Then we carried them outside where we would fight hungry insects to our prize, but she always helped me dish them out to each doll, calling each one by her name and thanking her for attending our party.

I was with my mother once again last night, in my dreams, sitting poised and proper, holding a cup of apple juice "tea" in my hand with one pinky extended outward just like real ladies did. I was five years old once more but so thankful for having this chance to spend some more time with my mother, since I knew she was really gone. We laughed and talked and the sandwiches tasted better than I ever remembered. I was so caught up in the moment that I was not paying attention to my saucer and it tumbled out of my tiny grip and shattered into a million pieces upon the ground. My real mother would have comforted me and reassured me that this accident was not intentional. She would have picked up the larger pieces gingerly and swept up the smaller pieces with an ever-present smile. I watched as the thing that wore my mother's skin chose the largest shard of porcelain and held it up in front of my diminutive face. As her lips slid back in a wrathful and maniacal grin, she sliced my jugular vein in one swift motion and warmth ran down my neck while she roared with laughter. My beloved mother slashed my throat; I do not want to go to sleep anymore.

**_August 13, 1978_**

What more can go wrong? This morning something unspeakable has happened. Several of our horses broke free from their stables, threw themselves into the ocean and drowned. I cannot believe it is true. I insisted Richard take me to the beach against his wishes - I had to see the remains for myself. They were all lying there in the wet sand, these huge hunks of meat that I had never seen before then. These were not our beloved horses. It was all a lie. There are so many flies everywhere. Why would they send themselves to this horrible fate? What horror were they all facing in life that was eons worse than death?

Samara was driving them mad like she is driving me mad. She is trying to destroy everything dear to us, this famine that has entered our lives. The horses could not bear this burden and I cannot either. Bless their poor, dear souls...they are free now. They are free.

God help us all.

_Editor's Note: The following entries have been inserted in chronological order to the best of the Editor's knowledge since these journal entries were taken from subject Anna Morgan's ECPH files. They were not dated properly as Mrs. Morgan was unaware of the time passing during her brief stay in September 1978._

I had always imagined hell would be varying degrees of flickering, orange flames- not stark white walls and miles of porcelain tile - and _windows_ - scores and scores of vacant, transparent glass with peeping-tom physicians. My little girl is in one of these rooms, though I am not aware which one. I know she is nearby because the emotional anguish she suffers at the hands of these doctors is reverberating through my head and I have spent the last three hours sobbing for her. They took off my restraints this morning, which gives me the ability to write for the moment, though it is only with a crayon on a sheet of paper - they will not give me anything sharp for obvious reasons. This numb fog throughout my mind has dissipated from Samara's projections. I cannot believe I am really here - when I can actually stay awake. My little girl, my little monster - what have we done to you?

It is an overwhelming sense of floating, really - I have become translucent and made of air where reality is just perception and nothing hurts. Numbness is not a strong enough definition because I have this sense of movement, a celestial spirit that has left its form and is just observing for the moment. I have become fascinated with my hands, all the bones and curves and detailed ridges - I am sorry I never learned how to read palms because I know I would surely find something horrible in all these mapped out lines. Dr. Scott met with me this afternoon and I don't remember what we talked about - I know Samara was part of the conversation, but it is all muck now, just some grey residue left over in the liquid that has become my brain. I have become water - I have become clear and lost.

It is the dead woman again. She is such a quiet visitor - she sneaks in through the wall and sits across from me in her dark, tattered dress but I do not recognize her since her face is far too mottled and decomposed. I know she is female from her shape and feminine hair. The first time I saw her, I was understandably alarmed since she looked so frightening standing before me with eyes of white, glistening with slime and smelling of decay, and I screamed until nurses came and shot me full of sedatives. My feelings toward her have changed now, however, since she has not done anything to harm me - she just watches patiently with those clouded, piscine eyes. I have started talking to her when I know no one is around to overhear me, but her only form of communication is nodding her head. I know somehow she understands what I am going through and this gives me comfort. She visited again last night, but Dr. Scott says that is not true, he says she is just another hallucination that my mind has created, but I know that just because he does not see her, does not mean that she is not there. She is different than the ripples of water that flow down the walls in the morning or the cracks that appear on the ceiling from time to time - I cannot express how I know that she is different, but she is real. I know that since I am becoming less vocally coherent during out sessions. Dr. Scott thinks I am getting worse, but I am getting better. I am getting better. I am seeing things with less confusion.

Her lips have started to come off. I noticed them starting to peel away this morning after breakfast, the large chunks of dark gray and brown skin revealing rotted teeth, but I am far too polite to mention it to her. I wish she could say something to me, our daily conversations are so one-sided and I am growing tired of listening to my own voice. I talked to her about Samara for awhile today and all the horrible things I know they are doing to her somewhere around this place. My heart is destroyed because it is my selfishness that has put us all here.

There was a bit of a fuss earlier – I spent the morning peeling the skin off my forearm to find long, skinny worms underneath. They restrained me and sewed up the wounds but I kept asking if they would take the worms out, please just take the worms out. I can feel them crawling, they are making their way to my heart.

**_September 23, 1978_**

Something must be done. Something must be done or we will all be dead. More horses are dying and there is much whispering around the Island. I hear them. I hear them in my brief moments of sleep and in the kitchen and beneath the stairs - they are everywhere. In the walls. In the bed sheets. The dead woman has been following me around - stepped out of a closet this afternoon to visit. She brushes her hair and clumps fall on the floor. I sweep them up before Richard sees them. Richard doesn't know and I won't tell him. I told him to have the surgery for Samara needs it. Maybe it will save the left horses. The ones that are left. There are so few. Please, Richard...take her for the surgery. Maybe if the God is a merciful one, she will die then.

**_September 30, 1978_**

Dr. Scott is dead. They found him on the floor of the recovery room this morning. The nurses said there was something wrong with his face and they don't know what. Something quite bad. Poor man...he was such a good man. He took many secrets with him. Such a kindhearted man. Why would he die? I do not understand. Perhaps it was a heart attack. Maybe he was ill.

I cannot sleep. The dead woman came back today and is skeletal. I so am tired. Samara is still at the hospital. Richard will take her home in a week. Maybe the surgery has helped. I have not seen her in so long. Maybe she is a normal little girl now. Maybe she is finally healed and whole.

**_October 24, 1978_**

I am home from ECPH once again, hopefully for good. There were men at the ranch today. Richard tried to keep it from me, but they came to study the horses in an attempt to find out what was happening to them. I laughed the first really good laugh in a long time...we know what is wrong with them. The surgery has not stopped her, her behavior has only gotten worse. The pictures are worse. Richard sees them too, sometimes. What have we done?

They quarantined the ranch about a week ago and said that they would check the grass for some kind of toxin that could be possibly causing the madness. They also mentioned that it was possible they could have been infected with some unknown disease and have taken a few of the carcasses in order to perform some necropsies to study their neurological systems. Of course, they will find nothing. We all just stay silent and let these men do what they think is necessary. If only they knew that this infection does not start in the brain, it starts in the barn.

After this is over, Richard wants us to get away from here for awhile. Shelter Mountain is a beautiful place and so peaceful. He said we need to avoid the public for some time because there is too much going on in the media about us and the ranch. He wonders if the ranch will ever be the same after all of this. We have lost so much. The island has lost so much - it has been suffering for so long from so many problems. People have lost jobs and all sorts of income. There has not been a good catch of fish for months. We need a change of scenery.

**_November 13, 1978_**

Shelter Mountain is as beautiful as it always has been - such an amazing view all around. We are surrounded with miles of green and forest. I am pleased we have ended up in such a peaceful place because things have changed. The sun is shining and we are sheltered by so much _life_ here. I am happy for the first time in months because I have found freedom. I know now what I must do to fix things. All will be right with the world once again. Richard will go back to smiling and laughing and we will return to a glorious time before all the horror and mistake. We can rebuild. We will find a way. It will all be all right soon.

**_November 20, 1978_**

Time. It has been nothing but curses and cruelty - it had set its own course of destruction since the beginning. Oceans of dire hours have come in waves with nary an apology or an explanation of their sinister intentions. What has made it choose _us_ as its victims? What horrible transgressions could we have committed for all to be destroyed and broken beyond repair?

What I must do - oh, my little girl - it has never truly been her fault; it was my selfish wants and dreams that put her here, but they will never accept that. She is the great monster of the village and they will come in frenzied dozens, bearing torches and stones or locks without keys, but I am her mother and it is my duty to protect her. I cannot let them punish her for her sickness. She never meant to do what she has done and I love her, no matter what she has done, and these miserable people do not even know the price to be paid for their assured safety.

Samara, my love, I am so sorry that you have only known anguish and confusion. I am so sorry that you were given breath only to suffer in this life. My heart is comprised of nothing but blood and despair for you, for you will never know peace on earth, but that will change. A brief moment of pain is worth all the good that is coming soon. My darling, I am so sorry. You were all I ever wanted.

Richard, my love.

Forgive me.


End file.
